Sonatas for Two Violins

It’s snowing pretty heavily now and me and Ant are trudging through Finsbury Park while I clutch a plastic bag full of old vinyl to my chest. We walk past the pond where ducks and swans glide about in the icy water, and he gives me a menacing glance.

‘What’s your problem?’ I ask, nearly slipping in the snow.

‘Lend us your hat, Ollie,’ he says, his chin shaking like a paint mixer.

My hands start to shiver with the cold, making all the records shiver too. ‘It’s not my fault you shaved your stupid head. Lend me your gloves and I’ll lend you my hat.’

We carry on walking in silence for a few seconds and then he says, ‘No.’

I look at my hands and they look red now, each knuckle a little plum tomato.

‘Do you really think they’re worth anything?’ Ant asks, hugging himself now as he walks.

‘Yeah, maybe. I don’t know. Nan always said they were worth something but they’re classical, aren’t they?’

‘So?’ Ant asks, his peanut head wobbling about as we make our way up the snow-laden hill.

‘So classical aren’t really worth anything. All they ever have in charity shops is cheap classical records, no one wants them. Don’t you ever notice them when you buy your second-hand clothes?’

A couple potentially too old for snowball fighting run around us doing just that, and I find that I’m pulling a pretty disgusted face.

‘They’re vintage clothes,’ Ant retorts.

This makes me laugh and I add, ‘Yeah but they are second-hand, aren’t they? Look how cold you are in that donkey coat. It’s covered in holes!’

I carry on laughing some more when abruptly a snowball made of what I can only assume is pure ice explodes against my face. I let out the kind of screech a goat makes and drop the bag.

‘Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, I’m so sorry!’ the woman yelps, waggling her purple mittened hands. Ant bursts into laughter and starts slapping his knee.

‘Hey pal, are you OK?’ the very tall and annoyingly calm male counterpart adds.

I pick up the bag of records and quickly walk away.

Ant catches up with me, still giggling, and says, ‘So you don’t think they’re worth anything then?’

‘No, I just said that, Anthony,’ I say, picking out some of the slush from inside my ear.

‘What if they are worth something, though?’ Ant asks, for some reason now walking normally and seemingly becoming immune to the cold.

‘Well, then we’d have some money and we’d split it.’

Ant starts to hop with every other step as I carry on shivering, my face now numb. ‘I’d start up my own business, Ollie. I’d quit working for the fashion corporate pigs and I’d start up my own brand. I’d buy a pub and I’d run it from there. Everything I sold would be ethically made and they’d be all the rage – the best gear in London.’

We finally start to go down the hill, the snow thinning out a bit. ‘Why in a pub, Ant?’

‘So we could all have a pint after work, obviously. And that’s another thing Ollie, I’d treat all my staff fair and pay them fair. Not like my boss treats me, the ignorant idiot.’

‘At least with the five quid you make from these records you can buy yourself a pint.’

Ant stops hopping and switches to sliding, the back of his coat flying after him like a cape. I catch up with him and he says, ‘What would you do with the money?’

‘With the five pounds? I don’t know, maybe get some scotch eggs.’

‘No, if they were worth something – come on Ollie! Have some imagination for God’s sake.’

I find myself looking around at the bare trees peppered with snow, and then up to the sheet of grey sky.

‘I’d move to the Med somewhere, buy a boat. I can’t work on yachts anymore. I like being abroad and at sea but I hate the working environment. It’s like you’re in a sardine tin that’s over a flame. I’d buy a boat and I’d do fishing tours, and I’d never come back here.’

‘How much is a boat?’ Ant asks.

We get to the end of the park and onto Green Lanes where buses and cars stream past.

‘A lot,’ I say.

*

We’re in the front room of this old grey-haired bloke’s house and I’m sitting by the fire and drinking a cup of tea as Ant paces around the room.

‘So do you have to buy a rug in Persia for it to be a Persian rug?’

‘That’s the idea,’ the bloke says, taking another vinyl off the record player and making a note in his little black Moleskin.

‘But what if it looks just like a Persian rug but it was made by Ikea?’ Ant asks, now leaning on a wall with loads of framed family photos on it.

‘I think it’s got to be Persian. I got that one from Iran, you see,’ the old bloke says, pointing to the massive rug we’re all standing on.

‘Yeah, I guess my one’s like a Swedish-Persian. Probably better to be honest, more of a hybrid.’

The old bloke smiles and picks out one of the last few records. He puts the vinyl down and drops the needle. A crackling begins and then the room fills with the sound of a violin. The old bloke closes his eyes and I’m surprised to see that Ant has too, so I do the same.

I’m taken back to being a kid and sitting on my nan’s floor with my brother. Nan is in the kitchen baking and the warm, comforting smell is wafting in. Ant is younger than me and he’s playing with his Lego, building some kind of castle. The music gradually becomes louder and faster and I find that I’ve become jealous of Ant’s new project. I move next to him and rip the top off the castle. Ant suddenly bursts into tears and shoves some loose Lego into my face, some of it sticking to my cheek. I start crying too and Nan comes in as the music reaches an epic crescendo. She picks us both up and takes us into the kitchen, where we are thrilled beyond words to discover a freshly baked cake.

The old bloke takes the needle off and the music ends. We open our eyes and he says, ‘That’s a good one, that. Sonatas for Two Violins.’

‘Oh yeah?’ I say, sitting up.

He nods and says, ‘Worth quite a bit, too.’

He slides the record into its red sleeve and I ask, ‘How much?’

‘I’d say about seven.’

‘Seven pounds?’ Ant asks, folding his arms in a huff.

The old bloke starts to laugh. ‘No – seven thousand.’

I fall back into my chair. I think Ant starts to laugh – though it could be a sneeze. I can’t take my eyes off the old bloke.

‘Seven thousand pounds?’ I ask, realising that my throat is dry now and it’s hard to talk.

‘Yeah, that’s right. Few others in here are pricey too,’ he says, opening up his Moleskin again.

‘The Leonid Kogan one is around eight grand. Bach Unaccompanied Violin, Tchaikovsky Concerto, Jacques Dumon Bach on Belvere. You’ll have to find a buyer with deep pockets for all of these. I’d say you’re looking at around twenty thousand.’

I stare blankly at him, my mouth wide open. I try to form words but motor functions don’t seem to be working properly. All I can do is turn to Ant, who is looking back at me with the exact same expression.

*

We’re stomping back up the hill in Finsbury Park and I’m clutching the records to my chest again.

Ant is hopping and spinning around next to me.

‘Hey, remember what Nan used to say about Finsbury Park? “Spell it backwards boys and you get Krapyrubsnif”. Good old Nan!’

I laugh and he starts laughing too.

‘Always there for us, wasn’t she?!’ I basically shout, bumping into the side of Ant as he continues to hop around.

We get to the top of the hill much faster this time and join all the people making snowmen and snow angels.

‘I can make my dreams come true, Ollie! I can open my fashion pub. It’s going to be amazing! And you can buy your boat and sail out to sea. Everything is going to change for us, Ollie!’

My pace begins to slow as I think about what Ant just said, about the boat, about the future. I think about the past too, about Nan and the Sonatas, that beautiful violin. Things seem to slow down as I look at Ant, his face warped into this huge smile framed by the white snow all around him. Without even a second’s thought, I push Ant over onto the ground and the thick snow, and I start to run alongside the pond.

The violins soar in my mind as I sprint onwards, towards freedom and towards my perfect boat, when suddenly from the side I see Keith’s peanut head as he rugby tackles my legs. We both come down in an eruption of snow and gargled shouting.

The bag of records lands a few feet away as Ant rubs his snowy gloved hands into my face and mouth.

‘Ollie, you traitor!’ he yells out.

I manage to bounce him off me and I do this pushing kick thing which rolls him away. On all fours, I clamber towards the records and grasp them as I struggle up, but before I know it Ant’s got his hands on the records too and we’re both pulling and shouting.

In my periphery I notice a few people gathering around to watch what’s going on.

‘Get off it, Ant, let me have them!’ I shout, spit erupting from my mouth.

‘Why should I?! You’re a snake Ollie, nothing but a snake!’

In the midst of all the pulling and jerking about, the bag suddenly flies up into the air over the low fence and hovers directly over the pond. Me and Ant watch in utter hopelessness as inevitably the records start their descent into the freezing water.

I see the splash but I don’t hear it. Instead, all I hear is the rippling waves of violins.